Promises
by misanthrope1
Summary: When you've lost everything, how do you go on? Warning: Slash


You sit on the rock, watching the birds fly and land and the waves crash against the shore. The salt smell and the wind pull at you and it smells clear and cool. The Atlantic is different than the Pacific, color shades perhaps or maybe just because this Maine beach is pebbles more than sand. It's all right because it's gorgeous and wild. Briefly you imagine it with snow but you know you won't see that. You sent him photos today, proof you've kept your word, because you made a promise and you kept your promises or at least you always tried. You hope he understands although you doubt he will. The birds and the ocean have always been a favorite and you understand now why he loves this place. You sip from the bottle beside you and watch the sandpipers play.

He's a shadow at first, thin and wispy. You certainly didn't expect him, had never planned on seeing him again, yet your heart does a quick stutter, skips a beat or two, and he sits beside you, just like Korea. Like Korea, you hand him the bottle and he drinks. The only difference is you're drinking Coca Cola. Neither of you speaks for a long time. It's him who breaks the silence_. Of course, it's him, he always talks, fill of life and never still_.

"Hey."

"Hey." You don't look at him, merely continue to watch the waves dance. Mentally you swear this will_ not _change your plans because you are too damn achy and old and numb inside to change now. "How'd you find me?"

"I grew up here. The photos told me where you were. And Madge-she's the Postmistress-said Fred had rented his old cabin to a stranger."

"I mailed those today. How did you get them?" A small, dull anger stirs in your stomach. You counted on, _needed _that day or two, those precious hours, to escape in peace and solitude. He shrugs, a typical Hawkeye gesture and you feel it and turn to him.

He looks good, much needed weight on his slender frame and his eyes glowing with life. Yet, you sense the hidden pain, feel the tentacles from Korea that still wrap around him every time he closes his eyes. He smells faintly of aftershave and you have to smile. "You look like hell," he quietly says.

Now you shrug. You know it's true. You can't remember your last solid meal and you didn't shave today or yesterday. "Peg called," he adds.

That stings and the small fire gets larger. Your wife called him, _him. _You feel your eyes narrow and you finally say "I'm sure she did."

"She's worried sick."

That makes you laugh somewhat, a nasty laugh that is exactly how you feel. "I bet she is." You keep the poisonous words from pouring forth but not the tone. Hawkeye eyes you with naked concern on his face.

"So what happened?" He leans back, never taking his gaze from you. You look to the sea, so glad he can't see through your clothes.

"Everything. Nothing. It doesn't matter." It doesn't. It's just added sludge to your already filthy life, another stone pressing your chest.

"It does matter if you've left your family."

"I told you I'd come." It hurts he doesn't remember your promise but it's good too, because if he remembered the whole promise, you would be in grave danger. His face fills with frustration.

"Beej, what is going on? The poster child for happy families should not be sitting on a beach watching birds fly!"

Now the volcano you've choked back erupts, spilling out curse words and foulness that makes Hawkeye rear back and stare. When you finally exhaust yourself, shouted out the last profanity to litter the salt clean air, Hawkeye is slack jawed. "Wow."

You're embarrassed and somewhat ashamed. So you tell the truth. "She had an affair."

He doesn't lean forward to comfort you as you expected _(hoped?)_ he would. He simply squirms. "We're human. People slip. You know that." The fury builds again because you know he's remembering Donovan and that wasn't anything like this, not at all.

"I didn't have a year long affair! I certainly didn't keep it going after my spouse returned to me and I certainly didn't involve myself so much with someone else that my daughter calls him Daddy!" That's what really tore it, to see the confusion in Erin's face when you tucked her in, to hear her plaintively say "You're not Daddy,", to actually feel her push you away, terrified by this stranger who tried to hug her. Now Hawkeye wraps an arm around you and you lean into him. There are no tears-you cried yourself out weeks ago. Not when you spotted Peg and Leo but when you knew you'd lost your daughter, the real reason you'd returned home. Hawkeye's breath ruffles your hair, tingles along your neck.

"You should have called. Damn, Beej."

You sigh. "I said I'd come. I did. I wanted to think."

"I'm so sorry."

You lean close and bite your lip because you don't dare tell him what you've done or what you've been thinking. "I could always re up," you joke. "France needs doctors in Vietnam."

He goes rigid against you and you feel his rage, his disgust. You close your eyes because this is not how you want this to go. Soon it won't matter but he should understand. You feel his hand on your back, rubbing soothingly. "How long since you've eaten?"

"I'm not hungry." That's true. You've drank most of your meals, drank and popped pills of the type you dare not tell anyone about. You know what they are and what they can do. You simply don't care.

"Come on."' He stands and pulls you to your feet. You can tell he's surprised by the ease at which he did it. He surveys you with those all seeing eyes and you glare back at him. "I've never seen you in blue," he quietly says. You hitch up your jeans, straighten your blue sweatshirt.

"Fits my mood."

You walk to the cabin. Hawkeye grabs your bags and tosses them in your dusty car. He drives you to a small diner. There he persuades you to eat and it's actually good. You chat and lose track of time until a laughing Hawkeye grabs your arm, pulls you outside. He's telling you about his father and their spare room. Before you know it, you're in a soft bed, falling asleep with Hawkeye nearby and briefly you touch his hand, trying to both prepare him and apologize in advance for what is going to happen. He won't understand, you know that, but you have to try.

When you wake, you wash your face, shave the stubble. You remember to wear a long sleeved shirt and an undershirt, dressed in white today and clean jeans. In the kitchen, you make coffee and meet Daniel Pierce. You instantly like him, You make breakfast and the two of you chat about golf and fishing. He thanks you, watching as you pour yourself a cup of coffee and sit down. His gaze flicks over you. "You're 31 now?" he asks. "Hawkeye mentioned a birthday." You nod and his face alters, turns sad and worried as he looks at you again. Hawkeye wanders in and you smile, hand him breakfast.

"When did you learn to cook," he demands.

"Pre-med. And anyone can make eggs, toast and bacon."

"Igor couldn't."

You actually laugh. You talk, exchange stories until Daniel excuses himself. Hawkeye says he'll clean up and Daniel looks at you again with that same sad, wistful look. "Thank you, BJ."

"My pleasure, sir."

He leaves and Hawkeye looks at you. "Sir?"

"I like him." You do. Daniel Pierce is friendly and kind and obviously adores his son, everything Jay Hunnicutt isn't and doesn't and if Daniel Pierce had one _inkling_ of what you were thinking about his beloved child, he'd kill you with his bare hands.

"Eat something." Hawkeye glowers until you make some eggs and toast. As you work, you feel his eyes on your back and you are very glad you wore an undershirt. "When did you find out about Peg?"

You stare at the eggs, scrape them on a plate. "Two weeks after I came home." You sit down and begin eating quickly.

"When did you leave California?"

"Six weeks ago."

"You've been in Maine how long? A week?"

You know where this is going. "Yes."

"So what were you doing the other five weeks?"

Your neck reddens and you grit your teeth, trying not to scream. "A lot I'm not proud of. Can we not talk about this?"

Surprisingly, Hawkeye agrees and you both finish eating. He washes, you dry.

You spend the morning strolling the town. You find yourself laughing at the strangest things, actually feeling happy. Mid afternoon finds you and Hawkeye ambling down a country road, admiring the fall foliage. Hawkeye finally stops and studies you. "Now what?" he asks. "What are we going to do?"

You're touched by the we. "I'm the one with the cheating wife," you remind him.

"And I'm your best friend, you moron."

Your chest tightens and to your shock, you feel your eyes burning. "I don't know," you honestly say. "I have plans but..."

"You came here because of your promise to me right?"

You stiffen, feel sweat pop along your spine.

_"I'll come see Crabapple Cove, Hawk, I swear."_

_"Promise me, BJ Hunnicutt. Make a vow."_

_"I swear before I die, I will come see Crabapple Cove and the Atlantic Ocean."_

Oh, you are somehow in a trap. "Yes," you slowly say.

"Here's the big one, Beej." And Hawkeye stares into you and you feel the earth shifting under your feet. "Were you planning on killing yourself?"

The mine goes off.

You inhale, shake, look away. That's a mistake because he steps close and when you look back, you gaze into storm furious blue eyes. "Hawk..." You hear the imploring tone enter your voice.

"Answer me!"

You look at your feet, unable to speak Inside, you're infuriated with yourself. You were supposed to be done by now, driven far away from Crabapple Cove and finished yourself. You were never supposed to see Hawkeye, never drag him into this. This was supposed to be a clean scalpel cut, not some butter knife soul hacking.

Pain pinwheels in your face and you fall, landing heavily and awkwardly on your side and arm. Hawkeye stands over you, face contorted with anger. "You son of a bitch!"

You stagger up, ignoring the aches. "Hawkeye," you start.

"No, BJ! Damn you!"

Hawkeye hates pain, hates physical violence of any sort. You're actually glad, though, still feeling the guilt of you once hitting him. He's blinking fast, turning from you. "Don't cry," you desperately say. "Christ, Hawk, don't cry. I wouldn't have done it here, I swear."

"Is that supposed to help?"

You feel the skin puffing around your eye. "Yes! I wouldn't taint your home. I just wanted you to know I kept my promise."

"You're supposed to be my friend! Do you think losing you would make me happy? Do you ever think beyond your own selfish wants?!"

That hurts, slicing deep past the armor you've built. You're doing this for him, thinking of him, and he doesn't understand and never will and so you lose control as only he can make you do. "It was for you, you idiot! To protect you!"

"From what? Nightmares? Korea? Memories? Faithless, traitorous friends?!"

"From me!"

He simply stares, staring with those beautiful eyes and you realize he doesn't understand, can't understand. You turn away, cradling your arm. "From you?"

"Fuck, Hawkeye, let it go."

"No way, mister!"

He grabs you and you shake your head. Now the tears stream, for him, always for him, the damn bastard who could always, _always_, draw anything from you as easily as winding a ball of yarn. You shake with pain and grief and longing and absolute sheer love until you're simply sobbing in great heaving gulps. He pulls you into his arms, the worst place you can be, and you struggle but he's strong. You were always stronger but your six week diet of liquor, drugs, and unmentionable things has just presented its bill. Your body simply can't pay.

Hawkeye mutters soft words, strokes your hair, runs fingers over your bruised eye. "Come on," he whispers finally and you follow him meekly to his house. "I don't really understand what you said."

"It's not important." His eyes blaze again, sparkling with rage and his own tears and you try again. "Hawkeye, I don't--didn't want you to see me like this."

"I'm your friend!"

"Can I clean up first?"

"All right."

He's patient now that he's won and you stumble into the bathroom. Your white shirt is filthy as are your jeans. You shower, scrub yourself clean. As you step out of the shower, Hawkeye opens the door, tosses you clean towels. "Here. Holy Hell, BJ!" You know you're thin but it's most likely the fading bruises, cuts, and needletracks that Hawkeye is gaping over. He grabs your sore arm and you yelp involuntarily. "What is going on?'

"Not here." You dress, feeling his fingers brush questioningly over recent cuts and scars. He drives you back to the beach. You sit on the same rock, stare at the water, and you talk.

You spill out secrets and things you were never going to tell him, tell anyone and the birds flutter and thewaves dance. You explain how you tried to keep your vows, tried to be a good man, a good son, but you simply weren't, you never have been, and you are honestly too tired to keep up the lies. Part of you actually reveled in those five weeks of trying to forget everything, of doing anything because it was what you were anyway. Korea wasn't to blame, it never was, and you realized your first week at home you should have died there, that part of you was actually happy. It was him, damn it, someone who knew you better than anyone and still cared. You'd realized long ago you were in love with your best friend. You're a monster, a degenerate just like Burns always said. And you are so damn tired of being alone.

You don't look at him. You know you've put a dagger in his chest and you'd rather not see the disgust. You've lost your wife, your child, and now your best friend. Part of you is aching for a drink, a real drink while another part simply wonders if it hurts to drown.

When his arms wrap around you from behind, you flinch. But he's gentle and slow and oddly delicate as he eases around you. He pulls you to his chest and you involuntarily chuckle. You're the larger man and this must be like a mule deer hugging an elk. His breath heats along your neck and then his lips trail across your spine.

Battered, bruised or suicidal, that's not what you expect. You jolt up, look at him. He's smiling, _smiling,_ with tear silvered eyes and damp cheeks. "Come here, you idiot."

You stare down at him, trembling because this is all new and you don't know if you can figure it out. But it's Hawkeye and you lean down and kiss him, kiss him as if you'll never kiss anyone again. _And you won't,_ your mind insists. Then it shuts down and your body roars to life, greedily dragging Hawkeye to his feet and drinking him in.

A long time after, when you're both filthy with sand and sweat, scraped raw by pebbles, and Hawkeye is absently running his fingers over your chest, you recognize an odd feeling. You feel whole for the first time in years, nothing pulling you in one way or another. You wonder if this might actually be peace, if maybe your future isn't measured in hours or days anymore but possibly years. When Hawkeye at last bumps your shoulder, you look at him and he smiles. "I'm impressed," he says. "You do your initials credit." You actually blush. He laughs, pulls you in for a kiss. "Come on, Beej. Let's go home."

"I have a home?"

Hawkeye rolls his eyes, pulls on his clothes. You follow suit. "You have me. Will that do?"

You kiss him hard, passionately. "Good enough."

And it is.


End file.
